


Whispering

by ineffablefool



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: (aziraphale is fat and round and beautiful thank you and good day), Asexual Relationship, Chubby Aziraphale (Good Omens), Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Love Confessions, Mutual Pining, No Sex, No Smut, Other, Pining, Post-Canon, lil bit of ableist language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2021-02-22 16:55:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22586077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineffablefool/pseuds/ineffablefool
Summary: Demons loved.It had taken Aziraphale quite a number of centuries to be able to admit it, but he had sensed it from a very few of them, over the years; although the clearest example was also the most vexing.  With anything that loved, he could sense the recipient, the target of that love.  Yet he had been sensing it, ever stronger and ever more deep, from the same demonic source for six thousand years, and its target was still a mystery.(Crowley loves.  Aziraphale is oblivious.)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 101
Kudos: 449
Collections: Aspec-friendly Good Omens





	Whispering

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and welcome back to the Soft Zone(TM)!
> 
> I felt like addressing, again, the matter of Aziraphale being able to sense love, when I usually prefer to write him as completely oblivious to Crowley's being smitten with him since two minutes in. So I did! Here is a story where Aziraphale can definitely tell that Crowley loves... something, but he doesn't know who or what. He'll figure it out, though, I promise.
> 
> Everything I write is always fat-positive and asexual, but here we also have zero (0) mouth kisses. I know some of my ace and/or aro fam does not like them. Hi fam! I hope you're having a lovely day.
> 
> I'm writing for the TV characterization, but I've decided that my written Aziraphale is visibly fat. Tumblr and AO3 user Squeegeelicious has created [this absolutely gorgeous artwork](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/189282541139/squeegeelicious-a-walk-to-the-ritz-for) for my first human AU [If Not Now, When](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20936816), which should help you know what to visualize as you read!

Demons loved.

It had taken Aziraphale quite a number of centuries to be able to admit it. The idea that a creature of Hell could be capable of such a tender emotion — not Lust, not Greed or any of the other obvious temptations, but actual, heartfelt, genuine love — had for a while seemed preposterous at best. At worst, it had seemed an insult to the very concept of love itself.

Still, he had sensed it from a very few of them, over the years. Usually small and stunted, but it was there all the same. There had been a very minor hellspawn he’d run across in ancient Sumer, barely above an imp, with a deep affection for the valley where it had made its home. Two demons he’d been sent to thwart in the fledgling Gupta Empire had clung together like frightened children in fear of his approach, and the bond between them had been clear enough that he’d actually hesitated before giving them a stern talking-to and sending them on their way.

Demons loved, sometimes, rarely.

The clearest example Aziraphale had of this was also the most vexing. With anything that loved, he could sense the recipient, the target of that love; he could even sometimes get a sense for what sort it was, if it was strong enough. Usually he could figure out by context. The Sumerian demon’s love for its valley had presumably not been the same as the two demons’ attachment to each other.

He had been sensing love, ever stronger and ever more deep, from the same demonic source for six thousand years. Yet its nature still eluded him. Its target was still a mystery.

Crowley sauntered into the bookshop, now, as casual as ever, bringing with him a wave of love so huge that it always knocked Aziraphale a bit askew at first. He’d had to start pulling away from that more ethereal sense while in Crowley’s presence somewhere back around the time of Shakespeare. He wasn’t even sure anymore what it would do to him to experience it full-force. It had grown so _much_ since the apocalypse had failed to happen. A roaring, seething maelstrom of love, without direction, without form. Perhaps this was what a love of the world felt like. Perhaps Crowley’s heart sang like this for all the Earth, for everything around them.

It did not sing for Aziraphale. Of that, at least, he was sure.

So it was that he greeted his oldest friend in the same way he ever did these days, affectionate but never too much so. He looked up from the book he’d gotten distracted by when he’d meant to be putting a completely different book back. “Crowley! Goodness, please tell me it isn’t seven already. Why, I’ve lost half the day.”

“Seven-thirty, actually. Figured you’d get yourself distracted.” Crowley ambled up next to him, craning his neck. “There’ll be a table whenever. Hmm, _Kritik der reinen Vernunft_? Nice bit of light reading.”

Aziraphale let himself enjoy, just for a moment, the feeling of Crowley standing this close to him. Peering over his shoulder, in the perfect position to put his arms around Aziraphale’s wide middle, to rest his chin in the crook of Aziraphale’s neck...

Which, of course, he would never do.

Aziraphale closed the book with a stifled sigh. He was in love with Crowley. The sentiment, unfortunately, was not mutual.

“Hardly a comparison to your company, dear fellow. Just let me tidy these away.” He put up the book he’d been reading, then started to do the same with the one he’d been carrying around. It was on a higher shelf, though — he couldn’t quite reach without the stepstool, not even on his toes —

The undirected force of Crowley’s love sharpened suddenly, and off-balance as he was, Aziraphale nearly toppled over. There was a warm hand at his back, though, and a warm voice only barely holding back laughter. “Come on, angel. Let me help you with that.”

Crowley plucked the book from him, slotting it easily into place. His hand on Aziraphale’s jacket shifted as he did so, pressing tenderly, as if rubbing gently against his back. As if — well.

The hand disappeared as soon as the book was in position. “Anything else you planning to discorporate yourself reshelving? Maybe I should get it while I’m here. Wouldn’t want you cracking that pr — that skull of yours.”

All the laughter emptied from Crowley’s voice. Aziraphale glanced up at him, curiously, but nothing showed past the dark glasses that wasn’t usually there.

“That’s all for now. My skull will remain in one piece, I assure you.”

“Good.” Crowley’s lips thinned out for just a moment. “That’s good.”

He shuffled down the row a bit, seeming to prowl vaguely. There was still a tension that wasn’t there before, though. 

Aziraphale wondered whether he’d somehow done something wrong. Anchoring himself a bit more in his human senses might help a bit, keep him focused on the here and now, not caught up in that strange sensation of demonic love. Yes. There. He could barely feel it at all now — just a tiny whisper at the back of his mind. He’d be a better dinner companion now, surely.

“Just let me change out of this old thing,” he said. Trying to fill the silence with chatter as he walked across the shop. “Get my coat on, and then we can be off. I’ve been looking forward to it, really; we haven’t been back to the Ritz since — oh. Since the day that, well.”

He pulled off his jacket, hanging it up with as little fussing as he felt he could get away with — he could miracle wrinkles out, but he did enjoy the human touch. 

Crowley’s voice stopped his hand on its way to his coat. “They wanted to kill you.”

They were hardly the sort of words to be spoken lightly, but there was still something about the way Crowley said them that tugged at Aziraphale’s mind. Or... not his mind exactly, but...

He turned, and Crowley was right there. If Aziraphale so much as breathed in too deeply, they’d be touching. “Well, yes. I found rather a similar situation, in your place.”

Crowley looked down at his own hand, flexing and relaxing as he spoke. “I hoped it would be Hellfire, because I’d be fine. I’d show them how strong you are, how brave, how much of a bea — a _blessed_ bastard you are, and they’d leave you alone, after. You’d be safe.”

Aziraphale wondered how much of a mistake it would be to take that clenching hand in his. To smooth the fingers open, and lay a kiss to the palm. Would it lose him Crowley’s friendship forever? Or perhaps only a few hundred years?

“And even if it wasn’t. If it was something else. If they killed me some other way —”

Aziraphale made a wordless exclamation of protest.

“— or if they just locked me up somewhere. It wouldn’t have mattered to me.”

The dark glasses regarded him above a clench-jawed mouth, below a thunderous brow.

“You still would have been safe. They would think they’d gotten you, but they’d only have me, and you’d still be safe.”

“Crowley.”

The slender hand stopped moving. It hovered in midair, as if uncertain what it would do next, whether it would fall to Crowley’s side, or perhaps touch Aziraphale’s face, grasp the soft flesh of his arm...

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said again, “if — if you think I would have been willing to live without —”

He stopped. The love which poured from Crowley’s heart, constant and consuming, was not for him. It wouldn’t be appropriate to say these things, to — to —

Crowley grinned, suddenly. He stepped back and slid both hands into his pockets. “Plus you’d be free of all that tartan. My corporation, my wardrobe. Be stylish at last.”

It was instinct to snort at the idea. That gave him a moment to regroup, to recover his wits. “Do please tell me you won’t be mocking my sense of fashion through the _entirety_ of dinner. I happen to _like_ the way I look.”

The angle of light on Crowley’s glasses shifted. “Good. You should.” Then, a little louder: “I promise not to mock. Have a nice dinner tonight, instead. Like friends.”

“Oh. Well. Splendid, then.” Aziraphale turned again, reaching for his coat. _You should_ repeated somewhat insistently as he pulled the garment on. This time he perhaps fussed more than was necessary, pulling his waistcoat down over the swell of his stomach, tugging at his lapels, assuring himself that everything was just so...

“Come on,” Crowley said behind him, and now he sounded a bit more like himself. “The Ritz waits for no... well. It’ll wait forever for you, angel. Forever.” 

There was perhaps the softest brush against Aziraphale’s shoulder as Crowley walked past him.

“But you probably don’t want to keep _it_ waiting.”

He strolled back out the door, all that muted storm of unfocused love following him like a shadow. Aziraphale wondered what he was missing. There had to be some meaning to that emphasized word.

* * *

The last time they’d eaten at the Ritz, it had been almost dreamlike. Crowley had draped so casually in his chair, handsome face wreathed in smiles that were bright and open and seemed only for Aziraphale. And Aziraphale, for his part, had at long last felt free — free from Heaven, from the old ideas of what he was supposed to be. From his fear.

He’d felt free to love. Free to _be_ loved. No silent, furtive clasp of hands on a bus, this. They could both be open with their hearts now. Could bare their feelings to the world.

But when he’d put his hand on the table, Crowley had not taken it.

It hadn’t mattered then. He’d been still too caught up in his own happiness, his joy that their side had endured and won at last. It had taken a rather embarrassingly long time to recall that, oh yes — Crowley did not love him. He loved, because demons could. But the feeling was not for Aziraphale.

Months later, here they were at the Ritz again, and it was not much like a dream at all.

“Anyway.” The word interrupted a long silence. Crowley had ordered for both of them, laying in what promised to be an absolutely sumptuous feast, and then had mostly seemed to stare into his wineglass. “Been thinking about going back to Paris.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale said.

“Been a while, you know? And the last time was mostly just me saving you. Had to scurry right back across the channel after lunch.” Crowley smiled for a moment, as if at the memory. “We didn’t even get to visit the Louvre.”

“I see.” It was Aziraphale’s turn to stare into his own wineglass now. “I’m sure the — the Louvre is rather more impressive these days. Less danger of getting one’s head cut off, as well.”

“Only for you,” Crowley said, and this time the smile was almost painfully fond. “All those ruffles. Don’t know what you were thinking.” Then, as Aziraphale raised an eyebrow: “Not mocking. Just — remembering. How you looked. All ruffly.”

Something seemed to pull at the back of Aziraphale’s mind again. He pushed it aside, and the strange tenderness of Crowley’s expression, too — of his words — because there was something far more worrying here, and that was the matter of Paris. The last time Crowley had chosen to leave London, it had been for the better part of a decade. Now that he had no Head Office to answer to, mightn’t he stay longer, if he decided Paris was more to his liking?

What if he never returned?

Aziraphale took a sip of wine. Tasteless, now. What a waste of a good Meursault. “Of course, if — if you would like to travel, then I think it’s a fine idea. To Paris, or...” He took a deep breath. “Or even somewhere... farther afield.”

He couldn’t expect Crowley to stay in London just for him, after all. He’d hardly be a good — friend, to do that.

Still, when Crowley’s face filled with clear delight, it was hard for Aziraphale to swallow the pain in his heart. It was hard to keep his eyes steady as Crowley leaned toward him, thin hand resting on the table, unknowingly near Aziraphale’s plump one. 

He hadn’t smiled like this since their last time at the Ritz. Perhaps not even then. It was as though Aziraphale had handed him some precious gift.

“Maybe a — a tour of Europe.” Excitement threaded through his voice, bright and joyful. “Paris to start, but I haven’t been back to Italy since Leo. Don’t know about you —”

“No, nor I,” Aziraphale murmured.

“Never been to Denmark at all. Always wondered what it was like, Denmark.”

“I’m sure it’s very nice.”

“Sensing a lack of enthusiasm here.” Crowley grinned at him, leaning even closer, chin propped on the hand that wasn’t barely an inch from Aziraphale’s own. “Fine. No Denmark. There’s plenty of time for it later.”

There was a gentle rattling noise. Aziraphale looked up, away from Crowley, from his beloved face so full of happiness at the idea of exiting Aziraphale’s life. Not that it had to be forever even if Crowley did decide to relocate, of course — they were immortal, their paths would surely cross again sooner or later — but they had had so short a time of freedom together before he’d apparently decided he’d rather take his freedom alone.

Their waiter had appeared, bearing the first course of the meal Crowley had ordered. Before, Aziraphale had listened with great interest to hear his favorites rattled off, a delightful spread from the beef tartare to the fig leaf mousse. The idea of eating seemed almost laughable now. It would all taste like nothing. Like the empty place in his chest which might as well have been made to hold a terrible, vexing, wonderful demon.

“Eat up, angel.” Crowley’s hand lifted from the table, gesturing at the delicacies arrayed before them. “We might not be back here again for a while.”

He set his hand back down again, and this time it did not stay where he’d had it.

This time it crept, with an odd shakiness, to lie across Aziraphale’s fingers.

“W — want you to enjoy it all now.”

Aziraphale stared at their hands. His own was familiar enough, soft and dimpled, no less round than the rest of him. Crowley’s, too, was familiar, long and slender. Seeing them together like this was without precedent. Even their joined hands on the bus from Tadfield had been a secretive thing. An act of giving and receiving comfort against the hard times they knew were still coming.

There was no reasonable explanation for the hand on his now. For the thumb that stroked lightly, once, over his knuckles.

For a moment, Aziraphale considered keeping up the charade. He could sit here, and eat the meal Crowley meant for him to eat, and be a pleasant dinner companion. He could listen to Crowley plan to leave him behind. Listen to the low whisper of Crowley’s love in the back of his own mind, the love that he couldn’t seem to block out no matter how hard he tried, the love that seemed to point in every direction at once, that he’d first sensed on the wall in _Eden_ and had only ever grown stronger for _six thousand years_ and that wasn’t for _him_...

No. He couldn’t. That was the truth of it.

“Crowley,” he said. His voice was half-choked, barely audible, but the answer he got back was even quieter.

“Yes, angel?”

“I don’t —” He pressed a fist to his mouth. Not with the hand touching Crowley’s, of course, because that touch would be all he’d ever have. He’d cling to it as long as he could. “I don’t know what it’s _for_.”

One eyebrow hoisted itself above the glasses.

“It just — it goes everywhere, it’s not _for_ anyone or for anything, and there’s so _much_ of it that I can’t block it out even though I’ve _tried_. I’ve tried, Crowley, but you just feel it so _much_.”

He was breathing hard, he realized. The eyebrow had lowered again, and now Crowley’s face was drawn and darkened with concern. “You’re not making any sense, Aziraphale.”

“Oh, don’t you see — of course you can go, Crowley, you’re — you’re free now, just as I am.” The thumb stroked his hand again, and he felt his lip tremble. “Free to go to Paris, or Italy, or Denmark or anywhere else. I just wish —”

He pulled his hand back from Crowley’s at last. Clenched both fists on the table, looking down at the white cloth between them. He couldn’t bear to see Crowley’s reaction to these last few words.

“You feel so much _love_ , Crowley. I just wish it were for me.”

There was a miserable silence.

“Who,” Crowley said at last, his voice a strained croak. “Who d’you think it’s for?”

“I don’t know!” Aziraphale found himself wanting to glance at Crowley again, but he wrenched his eyes back to the table between his fists. “I can always tell, when it’s strong enough. I should be able to tell with you! But it’s as if I’m at the center of a storm, and it’s spinning all around me in every direction.”

There was a quiet sound that might have had a laugh somewhere in its ancestry. “Revolving around you.”

Aziraphale gave a helpless little nod, feeling his mouth twitch down again. “Yes, or like it’s —”

“Revolving around _you_.”

Long, graceful hands came into his view, picking up one of his own from the table. Smoothing away the tight fist, relaxing his fingers, unknotting his palm.

He tried to keep his eyes from flicking that direction, but they would not be stopped, and he looked over just in time to watch Crowley lay a kiss to his wrist.

“Orbiting you,” Crowley said. “All the planets, but you’re the _sun_.”

Aziraphale looked at Crowley. At his own hand, now being cradled, held warm in both of Crowley’s. Down to the table again, up to search the room for answers, back to Crowley —

“...me?”

Crowley’s eyebrow was raised again, but his expression was gentle. “Angel, I thought — You didn’t know? All your ethereal whatsits, and you didn’t know?”

Aziraphale watched careful fingers slide between his own. He risked a squeeze, just a brief one, and when it was returned he felt himself shiver. “I — I knew you loved. Since Eden, I knew.”

Crowley squeezed again. “Since Eden.”

“But I could never tell what — who —”

“You.” Voice a hoarse rasp. “Always you.”

Aziraphale let the feeling come in, just a little. Even that slight peek, that cracking open of the door, was enough to make him gasp. “Oh, but Crowley — you were going to go to Paris, you were going to leave —”

“With you, you great idiot!”

Aziraphale gaped at Crowley, who was _laughing_ now, the wretched creature, laughing and joyous and more handsome than this corporation’s heart could stand —

Crowley loosed Aziraphale’s hand, snapping something up from below and slithering to his feet in one fluid motion. He shoved past his own empty seat with so little care that it toppled over, loud in the sudden silence.

He leaned over Aziraphale for an instant, and his eyes were just visible over the tops of his glasses, wide yellow irises locked on startled blueish ones.

Then he dropped to his knees by Aziraphale’s chair. Rested his hands on Aziraphale’s knee. Gazed up, smiling, into Aziraphale’s wondering face.

“I was asking to go to Paris _together_ , you stupid beautiful thing. Italy. Everywhere.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said.

“Everything we’ve never gotten to do.” Crowley shifted closer. “Everywhere we’ve been, but different now.” When one of Aziraphale’s hands started tracing a hesitant path through his hair, he let his head fall to rest on a plump thigh. “And everywhere we haven’t. But together.”

“Together," Aziraphale echoed.

“If you want to.”

Crowley’s love sang out from his demon’s heart, too strong for Aziraphale to block out even if he wanted to. It had had a target all along. He just hadn’t realized what it would feel like, the target being himself.

It felt like the empty space in his chest being filled in at last.

“Paris,” Aziraphale said. He stroked Crowley’s hair again, his heart skipping painfully at the little mumbling sound the action produced. “Paris again, and — and we’ll have crepes.”

“Crepes.” Crowley pulled off his glasses and buried his face against the soft flesh of Aziraphale’s leg. “All the crepes you want.”

“And Italy — oh, you did enjoy Milan, my dear.”

Crowley shivered. “Milan.”

“Darling.” Aziraphale ran his hands through Crowley’s hair, down his shoulders. Pulling gently, drawing his head up so he could look into his shimmering yellow eyes. “My love.”

“Was never sure —” Crowley squeezed Aziraphale’s leg, not painfully, but not really seeming to notice he was doing it, either. “Sometimes I thought you had to. You’d look at me, and — but. But I had to be careful. You couldn’t say anything then. I know. Too fast.”

Aziraphale felt his heart twist. “You’ve waited so _long_ —”

Love swirled in the air, his very lungs thick with it, too much to ignore. Too much to escape. It surrounded him, coiling around his body, an entire ocean of adoration for every bit of him. Of everything he was.

No wonder he’d never understood its true nature. It was like the difference between seeing the smudge of rain on the horizon, and being lost in a typhoon.

“I did,” Crowley agreed. He looked directly into Aziraphale’s eyes, and his own were trembling but sure. “Waited. Was worth it.” He drew a huge, noisy breath. “You’re worth it.”

“Oh, come _here_ ," Aziraphale said, laughing, crying. He opened his arms, and then there was a demon in them.

Crowley clung to him desperately, as if he could feel the storm of his own love, as if he were in danger of being ripped away by it. Aziraphale would never let that happen, though. His own round arms pulled the shaking body into a tight embrace. All scrabbling limbs, Crowley was, and not much room on Aziraphale’s lap for him. But he curled up close, and Aziraphale held him.

“Oh, my treasure,” he said, when he felt like speaking again. “Thank goodness you don’t love me for my _mind_.”

Crowley laughed at that, rich and deep and true. It was impossible not to join him, to laugh with him, to keep laughing as Crowley started covering his face with kisses, cheeks and forehead and the softness of his chin.

“Stop,” he chuckled, “do stop. Oh, we’re making such a scene. We’ll never be able to dine here again.”

Crowley’s lips touched the corner of his mouth, and he shivered.

“You didn’t notice? Little demonic miracle.” A kiss against the tip of his nose. “Look around.” One on his temple. “Can’t hold it much longer, but while I can...” Three quick pecks along his jaw, and Aziraphale wiggled away with a helpless laugh.

“What are you talking about, beloved...?”

At the table next to them, a woman held a glass halfway to her mouth. She didn’t move any more than her companions did — another woman leaning on the table, and a man who seemed caught in a laugh.

A waiter stood in mid-stride beyond the trio. The piano had gone silent. There was, in fact, no sound at all.

“You stopped time for —” Aziraphale found himself dangerously close to blushing. He darted his eyes to look at Crowley, then away, then back again. “Well. I’m not sure what you expected us to — to _get up to_ —”

Crowley’s arms tightened around his broad waist. “Just this. Just — us. Like this.” He leaned against Aziraphale’s shoulder, one hand pulling back to rest against the curve of his middle. “Not sure why I’d want anything else.”

“Crowley. My precious Crowley.” Aziraphale covered Crowley’s hand with his own. “I love you so.”

The slender body pulled in a deep breath, then let it out raggedly. “I’ve got to let time go now.”

“All right.”

Crowley stood, grasping at his hands a moment longer, eyes bright and smile soft. Then he let them go. Picked up his chair, and set in back in place; the glasses had wound up on the floor as well, and he retrieved those before sitting down again.

Even with his eyes hidden, though, the love in his expression was blinding.

“Was holding your hand. Here —” Crowley took Aziraphale’s hand again, nestled in both his own, arranging them carefully on the table. “Yes. Good.” His fingers wove gently in with Aziraphale’s. “Ready?”

At Aziraphale’s nod, he lowered his head.

Sound burst back in on them, the gentle thrum of conversation and bright threads of laughter. Music wound its way through everything, the pianist giving a slow rendition of something Aziraphale could dimly remember hearing back around 1921 or so. _I know it’s true, there’s no one, dear, but you..._

The woman at the next table sipped her drink, and the waiter continued on his way. No one gave the slightest bit of attention to the two diners now smiling at each other over linked hands.

Aziraphale could feel Crowley’s love, because he could _always_ feel Crowley’s love; whenever he was near, it would be there, battering at Aziraphale’s ethereal senses like a storm if he let it, whispering at the back of his mind if he tried to shut it out. He was letting it sing, now. Letting enough of it in to feel the shape of it, to see the pattern in it at last.

It whirled around him because it whirled _around him_. Circling him eternally, padding on dark silent feet. Oh, he should have known. He really should have known.

“Paris.” Aziraphale bounced the tiniest bit in his seat, and that made the waves of love draw closer, which only made him smile more widely in return. “Milan, Copenhagen. Tokyo. We could have sushi!”

“Got food right here you should be thinking about first, ridiculous angel. Sushi’s for later.”

“Oh yes. Later.” He drew Crowley’s hands to his lips. “We’ll have ever so much of that.”

Crowley smiled. Crowley beamed, laughed; Crowley _loved_ , and always had. Its nature was brilliantly clear, now. Its target was an absolute fool.

Aziraphale kissed his demon’s hands one more time, then set them back down on the table. “I’ll go anywhere with you, darling. We’ll see the world together; we’ll share all of it. Everything.

“ _Everything_ ,” he repeated, sliding a dish over to Crowley. “Now, _do_ let me tempt you to some of these croquettes.”

**Author's Note:**

> The song Aziraphale hears at the Ritz is "Whispering", published in 1920 and written/scored by Malvin and John Schonberger. [I like the Max Raabe version](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hyDxYW_YZ28), even though the version of this album I bought... definitely has a different cut with part of the middle missing. But oh well.
> 
> Thank you for reading! If you were thinking of leaving a comment, please know that I treasure every single one. I've literally cried a few times reading some of the lovely things people have said, and they really are fuel for my soft little heart -- but never, ever required, so please don't feel pressured. 
> 
> If you want to say hi on Tumblr, I'm [ineffablefool](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com) there, too.
> 
> I would never actively request art from anyone I wasn't paying, but if you, the human reading this, were to decide it was worth your time to create fanart based on any of my stories, I would be incredibly honored ([and would love to enshrine it forever on my Tumblr](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/tagged/ineffablefool-gets-fanart-from-lovely-people))! I have only one requirement: please don't draw Aziraphale any thinner than the size I headcanon (I need both my soft cuddly daydreams, and my positive fat representation). Here are some examples of what that sort of minimum body size/shape might look like: ([beautiful fanart created for me by Squeegeelicious](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/189282541139/squeegeelicious-a-walk-to-the-ritz-for)) ([speremint 1](https://speremint.tumblr.com/post/186342035100/i-did-this-instead-of-my-hw-ya-girl-is-gonna)) ([speremint 2 from her Reversed Omens AU](https://speremint.tumblr.com/post/186574829700/finally-finally-done-making-these-refs-my)) ([dotstronaut](https://dotstronaut.tumblr.com/post/186740069618/no-really-i-dont-think-you-all-understand-how)) Otherwise, the characters can look however you like!
> 
> I hope you're having a fantastic day.


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